


Cloth of Gold

by dornfelder



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, episode 4.09, episode coda, reaction fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:29:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: "Tell me one thing," Flint says.Silver lifts his head, eyes full of apprehension. "If I can.""If you were to tell me about your past – about all the things you cannot bear for me to know – what do you think I might do?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> The kinda undecided fic that wanted to be meta and porn... aka my personal take on the beach sequence. Where Flint finds out what it is that Silver is hiding from him, and wants him anyway.

The threadbare piece of cloth smells distinctly of goat. Flint wipes the sweat from his brow with a grimace, trying not to breathe in too deeply. Silver steps up behind him, and Flint holds the cloth out to him without looking and expects him to take it. Silver doesn't, however, and Flint turns around to see what's keeping him. 

Silver meets his gaze for a brief moment before he averts his eyes to stare at something in the distance. Flint follows his gaze to the treeline, which does not offer anything of particular interest. 

"Thank you," Silver says. 

It's the tone of his voice – quiet and subdued – that tells Flint what he's talking about. Silver is still breathing hard and covered in sweat. When Flint silently offers him the cloth a second time, Silver takes it and wipes his face and his neck. His hair is soaked, wet strands sticking to his temple. 

"I won't presume to know what it is you don't want to tell me," Flint says. He doesn't want to make the situation more difficult than it is; after all, he has already agreed to let it slide. But that's not the same as pretending to be happy about it. "But if it is ridicule you fear – or judgment – you needn't worry. I would not look at you differently for whatever you chose to reveal to me."

"That's not true," Silver says. "There are some things even you – _especially_ you – would not abide." 

"What lies in your past, is it really any of these things? You have come to know me, my past as well as my present," Flint says. He shouldn't keep pushing, but then, it was Silver who brought the issue up again. "I believe there are very few things that I would not be able to understand." Silver opens his mouth, but Flint shakes his head. "I will respect your wish. Rest assured, I will not ask again." 

The plain relief on Silver's face makes Flint's heart ache with something he has no name for. "I know the man you are now. I have come to trust you a great deal, and I seek your council. When I told you of my past, you listened to me without malice, without … an intent to use what you learned against me, or so I am willing to believe. And so … if you ever find yourself wanting to confide in me, I will offer you the same, to the best of my abilities."

Silver lowers his head to stare at the sand. For a moment, there is nothing between them but the waves breaking at the shore and the wind. This island is even more beautiful than Nassau. All traces of the battle are gone, and there is peace, a peace Flint finds himself seeking for more and more often.

"It is not the same," Silver says after a moment, so softly that Flint almost misses it. "It's not the same." Flint looks at him, and this time Silver meets his gaze. His eyes are guarded. "Thank you anyway." 

There is a ghost of a smile, and Flint almost wants to reach out and trace it with his thumb, learn the shape of Silver's lips through touch, and lay a hand on his cheek. 

Silver seems oblivious. He looks at Flint for a little longer, then turns away. "Whatever it is you imagine," he says, and stops. He shakes his head. "You are likely wrong. I am … I am nothing like him." 

Flint furrows his brow. "Like who?"

Silver fiddles with the cloth in his hands; he doesn't reply.

Understanding dawns. For a second, Flint is incapable of saying something, caught by surprise by a weird ache in his chest. Why would Silver want to compare himself to a dead man he never knew?

"I don't expect that from you," he says after he has found his voice again. 

Silver says nothing, keeps his head bowed. 

The urge to reach out and touch him doesn't go away. The urge, in itself, is nothing new: Flint has felt it for a while now, more and more frequently, but it has never been quite as powerful as today, or yesterday. The way Silver had looked at him, with eyes speaking only of fear, shame, and utter misery … it's like a glimpse of he boy that Silver must have been. What does that boy have to be ashamed of? After all the things Flint has confessed to Silver, the things Silver has seen him do without shrinking back from him in horror – what could it possibly be that puts such an expression on Silver's face? When Flint already knows that he has been a thief and a liar and a traitor?

"Tell me one thing," Flint says. 

Silver lifts his head, eyes full of apprehension. "If I can."

"If you were to tell me about your past – about all the things you cannot bear for me to know – what do you think I might do?"

Silver goes utterly still. His lips part in shock. 

For a second, the answer is written on his face so plainly that Flint's breath catches in his throat. In that moment, he _knows_. It all falls into place in an instant of perfect clarity: Who Silver is, why he doesn't want Flint to know.

Silver swallows and manages a mockery of a smile. "Is it so difficult to imagine that I wouldn't want your pity?"

"Is it pity that you fear?" Flint says softly. "Or abandonment?"

Silver flinches. "Stop." His voice is low. "Do not do this. Do not pretend that you _know_  –"

Flint takes a step toward him, and now Silver does shrink back from him. Flint follows and two quick steps bring him into Silver's space, close enough that they share the same air. He puts both his hands on Silver's shoulders, hindering his retreat. 

"I already know who you are," Flint says. "I know everything." He lets his voice drop into the murmur, barely rising above the surf. "Your hate yourself more than anyone else ever could, and you think so poorly of yourself that you feel everyone who sees you – truly sees you – will turn from you in disgust." 

Silver is trembling under his hands. Flint lets his hand slide upward, to the juncture of his neck where warm skin invites his touch, and lets his fingers spread wide. "You can't let anyone have the knowledge of who you were because you think it might be your death to see the disdain in their eyes. And …" He hesitates at the look of horror that slowly spreads over Silver's face, but continues anyway. "It is different than the shame I knew for the longest time for the thing inside me which makes me light up at a man's touch where a woman's doesn't stir me. It is different than the regret and shame I feel for the things I have done, when I let the worst of me rule my actions." Silver's eyes are wild, desperate. His lips move, as if he wants to deny the accusation, or maybe as if he wants to cry. "It is different than the shame at having one's flaws and weaknesses revealed," Flint says. He studies Silver's face, sees the reflection of his words written there. For once, Silver is unable to pretend – robbed of all his defenses, heartbreaking in his anguish. "You spoke of unending horrors, and that may very well be true, but there's something else at the core of it, isn't there?"

He feels more certain by the second. It's as if a veil has been withdrawn, and he can finally see clearly. It all makes sense, Silver's vehement refusal to reveal anything true, his stories, meant to sway, to ingratiate, to lead stray. Silver's shoulders are hard and strong under his hands. The man before him is real, and so is his suffering, and Flint would like to spare him, but he can't. 

"A lack of luster," he says. "An absence of glory. Vulgarity, the basest, most common sort of ignominy. I don't think it is the horrors of your past you cannot bear to be known, but its bleakness. Not the chain of events that led you here, the cruelties you suffered and the vile acts you committed, although I do not doubt there were plenty of either. But what you fear the most is that someone will look at you and find the weakness and _wretchedness_ that lie underneath. That someone will see the truth of you – that the fabric you're made of is tattered, and stained, and worth so little that no one would bother with it if you didn't spin an illusionary thread all around you, to cloak yourself in cloth of gold – no, not gold. _Silver_." 

Silver's face contorts at that. " _Fuck you_ ," he says in a tight voice, breathing hard. His eyes are glassy and distant. "Fuck you. Let go of me. I said _let go_  –" His voice rises with a near-hysterical shrillness.

"Silver," Flint whispers in recognition.

Silver starts to struggle in earnest. Flint holds on tighter, his fingers dig into Silver's shoulders. Then Silver shoves him, and Flint refuses to let go. They tumble to the ground, an inelegantly flailing of limbs, too uncoordinated to be called a brawl. Silver lands on top of him. He bares his teeth in a snarl, ties to scramble to his feet, but without his crutch, lost in the fall, he finds no leverage. Flint is taller, heavier, gains the upper hand easily. He rolls them around and pins Silver to the ground with his weight, straddling him.

Silver, for all that he's good at dodging, struggles futilely to escape. Flint finally catches his writs and pulls them over his head. It's not easy, Silver fights him every step of the way, and it's only through sheer strength and ruthlessness that Flint succeeds. 

"Silver," he says again. He stares at Silver, at his fury, his desperation, and feels nothing but a mad, exhilarating fondness that is almost unbearably strong. A wild laugh is caught in his throat. "You are wrong. You are so very _wrong_  –"

Silver tries to break his hold, tries to throw him off. "Fuck you, let go of me. I am not going to listen to this –"

"I see you," Flint says. "I _see_ you. I _know_." 

Whether it's his words that reach Silver or the way he looks at him, he has no idea, but Silver goes still under him. Flint holds on tighter; there's nothing more dangerous than temporary surrender, an opponent biding his time. He can't risk Silver besting him now with an unexpected move and getting away. There's too much at stake. 

"You don't have to pretend," Flint says. "Not with me."

"You know nothing about me. Whatever you believe –"

"That is not true," Flint says, gently. "I know so very many things of you. I know how strong you are, how capable. How insistent. How brave and inventive. I know your quick wit, your compassion, your generosity. Your ability to see the world for what it is and not despair. Your ability to _persevere_. Your instinct that drives you towards survival against all odds. Your inner strength that leaves you undeterred in the face of death and pain and famine – the inner strength you're only just starting to realize you possess."

Silver stares him, blue eyes stunned. His lips are parted, and the rise and fall of his chest is fast and shallow.

"You want so much," Flint says. "Things you never thought you could have. And I want to give them to you, all of them. All I ask – all I want from you is to let me try. I want to give you everything. Everything you want."

"I want nothing from you," Silver says. He sounds like a boy, hurt and defiant, and he looks at Flint with a longing that belies his words.

"Yes, you do," Flint says and hears his voice go even softer. " _Silver_." Silver shudders under him, eyes wide. "What was your name? Was it Solomon Little? You were right, I don't need to know. You offered me your friendship. Your loyalty. And I'd let that be enough, except …" Silver is focused on him now, open to him, and he may not realize it, but there's a barely contained hunger in him that reaches out to Flint through the heat of his gaze. "I can give you more." He lets go of Silver's wrist and does what he's been tempted to do before: he winds his fingers through Silver's hair and traces his hairline with his thumb. 

Silver's eyes darken at his touch, and he closes his mouth and swallows.

"I want all of you," Flint says softly. "Your cunning. Your boldness. Your ready smiles, which are false, and your true ones, the ones you don't give me willingly. I want you by my side and hear you command our men in battle, watch you become that which I cannot, a true king. Let me be your sword, and let me give you the crown."

He bends down to kiss Silver, softly, and Silver lets out a shocked gasp against his lips. Flint swallows the sound, kisses him again, drinks from him, and Silver … Silver lets his lips part, and offers him more. When Flint breaks the kiss to look at him, his eyes are entirely dark.

"Say yes," Flint says. "Say yes." 

"You don't –" 

"I do. I want you," Flint says. "Let me have you. All of you."

Silver closes his eyes. "One day you'll look at me and see –" 

Flint knows what he's trying to say, knows how vulnerable Silver is in this moment, after everything Flint has told him straight to his face – how, if Flint said the wrong thing to him now, it might just destroy him. "No," Flint says. "No, I won't. I am looking at you right now. Open your eyes." 

With visible reluctance, Silver obeys.

"Tell me you don't believe me," Flint says. "Tell me that I don't understand. If that is truly what you think."

Silver opens his mouth, but no words come out. 

"Do you believe me?" Flint say, keeps his voice low, gentle. It's almost frightening, how much he wants, no, needs Silver to believe.

Silver takes a sharp, shallow breath. After a second, he nods. 

"Say yes," Flint says. 

It's closer to a plea than a demand, and Silver seems to hear the difference just fine. He blinks. A a hint of color creeps into his cheeks, the beginning of a blush. "Yes," he says.

It's all the permission Flint needs.

"You're mine," he says. "You're _mine_." His lips travel over Silver's throat, down to his collarbone, marking Silver's skin with a soft bite. 

Silver moans, licks his lips, whispers, "Kiss me again." 

Happy to oblige, Flint returns to his mouth for sweet, drugging kisses that go on and on, even as they find a rhythm, rocking together. He is torn between the urgent need to claim Silver right here and the wish to do it properly, in a bed, skin on skin with no barriers left between them. 

There will be time for that later, has to be, he'll make it so. Time to strip Silver bare and have him in any conceivable way, under him and around him and inside him. But their first time, it has to be now, on the sun-warmed ground – out in the open, caressed by wind and salt and sand. 

"I'll never abandon you," Flint says, a promise that makes Silver throw his head back in a gasp, almost a sob, and bare his throat to him. "All that you are, I'll take it, I'll keep it. I want it … I want _you_." 

Silver leans up to take his mouth and steal his voice, so Flint has to pour his promises into kisses. They move more frantically, thrusting against each other fully clothed, in near desperation. It's better than anything; it's almost more than Flint, who never thought he would have something like this again, can bear. 

"Show me," he breathes against Silver's lips between kisses. "Show me you're mine." 

Silver arches against him and stills with a low moan. His eyes fall close as he comes, and Flint stares at him, bearing witness to the moment when Silver is entirely lost to pleasure, rare, precious seconds of utter abandon. 

Flint slows his own movements. He grits his teeth against the renewed urgency; it's been far too long, and he's helpless against it. Silver kisses him, sucks on his bottom lip, presses his lips against his cheek. " _James,_ " he whispers, which shouldn't make Flint shudder like this, the sound of his name from Silver's lips like a secret they share. Silver curls his right hand around the nape of his neck and pulls him down for another slow, thorough kiss, lets his left hand slide down Flint's side to urge him closer.

Silver, under him like this, intent on making him fall apart, is an irresistible force, and Flint succumbs to him. Grits his teeth as he comes, can't suppress the groan as he spills and tremors keep running through him, a pleasure so intense he's left mindless and gasping in its wake. 

"Yes," Silver whispers. 

Before Flint can catch his breath, Silver _heaves_ and flips them over, straddles Flint's hips, reversing their roles. Flint's initial instinct is to fight, and for a second, his body is tense under Silver's, braced for an attack that isn't coming. Silver keeps looking at him, thoughtful and a little amused, and Flint slowly relaxes under him. Silver bends closer. His hair has come loose, and it touches Flint's bare skin just above his collar.

"You say you want me," Silver says. "You say you want to keep me, but I am not a thing to be kept, any more than you are. I know you want this war more than anything. But what if – what if, by happenstance, you ever came to a point where you had to choose – would I be enough? Would you leave this war behind for me, if I were to ask?"

Flint stares at him. 

He thinks of the fleet anchored off the island, of Nassau, waiting for him beyond he horizon, thinks of a world that is long lost, of plans and visions of a bright future that never came to pass. 

"I know what you wish to hear from me," he says haltingly. "And … by God, I wish I could give you the answer you want. But the truth is, I don't know what I would do." 

Silver nods, as if the answer was something he expected. A hint of resignation clouds his face, and before Flint can think better of it, he's already lifting a hand to tuck a strand of dark, damp hair behind Silver's ear.

"If there is anyone in this world for whom I would give up this war, it is you," Flint says. "I am not sure I could forfeit everything I have fought for. I don't think I _should_. But … I am afraid I might do it anyway, if I were ever faced with that choice."

Silver's smile is a rare kind, shy, a little wistful. More truthful than not. "I'll be at your side for as long as I can. But I will not be consumed by this war. If there is nothing to be won, if the time comes for us to leave this war behind … I need you to listen to what I have to say, and consider my words."

"I will," Flint says. 

Silver kisses him, and Flint pulls him close, holds on tight. Thoughts of the war, thoughts of the past and the future, flee his mind. All that's left is the man in his arms, warm and alive and _his_.


End file.
